


Dripping Red

by Onlymostydead



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Only Whiterose if you squint, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:09:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymostydead/pseuds/Onlymostydead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It pours from the cracks, such a deep, dark red; marring the pristine white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dripping Red

White.  
Everything is white.  
Clean white lines, keeping everything pristine and clean.  
Like a blank slate, waiting for color.  
But no.  
These lines are unwelcoming, unforgiving.   
Winter learned that first.  
She braces herself against the cold of those words, dreading the day they are turned on her.  
The lines, holding her back.  
The pristine white a façade, hiding the darkness within.  
Preventing it from ever seeing the light of day.  
Stark white.  
But look there.  
Contrasted against it is crimson.  
Blood red dripping from the seams.  
If he paid enough attention he would see the red flames of rebellion.  
He would be furious.  
But he doesn't really care now, does he?  
That's what she tells herself as the blade breaks the perfect, pristine white and red flows out from underneath.  
No, imperfect.  
Because if she had attained perfection her father would love her.  
If he saw he would be furious.  
But he never will.  
For he will never care enough to look, to see the signs.  
All she lets them see is white, colder than the snow for which she is named.

Red words boil over, out of her mouth.  
No, Father.  
I will not go.  
The heat from the words turns quickly to steam in the icy cold.  
He is furious now that he sees it, this rebellion.  
His final insult is how he said those words, steely and cold. Not for a moment betraying that perfect, pristine white.

...

Red.  
Bright red as she runs her fingers through her hair, the black fading into that glorious red.  
It's how she lives now.  
Surrounded by the colors of them all, the white no longer a confinement, but a strength. The cold not a curse, but solidarity, holding them all together.  
She found the red no longer needed to be on her, not when such red stood by her side.  
Forever, she said.  
And not just red, but black, and yellow.  
Each color distinct and strong.  
Protecting her, holding her up.  
And she them.


End file.
